I didn't exactly choose to be stolen at four years old.
But the French underworld isn't big on consent.
One minute I was Donatella Acardi, Mafia royalty. The next? Just another stolen kid bleeding in someone else's basement.
That's where I met Ami...
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Donatella POV:
The quiet of the bathroom felt almost sacred. Soft yellow light spilled from the vintage sconces, illuminating the pale tile, the fogged mirror, the worn edges of a life I never expected to live again.
Amir sat on the closed toilet lid, legs slightly parted, hands resting on his thighs. The thin cut on his lip had clotted, but I was paranoid. Careful. Gentle.
I dipped the clean cloth into the warm water again, wrung it out, and leaned in. His eyes never left mine.
"You're not going to bleed to death from this," I murmured, brushing the cloth over his lip with slow, rhythmic movements, "but it looks like hell."
"I'm not exactly a model, Donatella," he said, voice low and teasing. "I can live with a scratch."
I gave him a look. "You're a wanted man across four continents. I'd like you to at least be symmetrical while you're hunted."
He chuckled-but there was a flicker in his gaze. A softness that crept in. Something neither of us wanted to name too fast.
I threw the cloth into the sink basin. He was still looking up at me. Still quiet.
"You usually talk more," he said after a moment, voice low, rough from emotion and silence and everything else we weren't saying.
"I'm thinking," I murmured, brushing a fingertip beside the cut. "Try not to talk. You'll split it again."
"Doesn't hurt," he lied.
I scoffed under my breath and kept dabbing.
"And stop staring at me like that," I said under my breath.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm..." I trailed off.
He tilted his head. "Like you're what?"
"Like I'm not the world's most dangerous woman and you're not supposed to be terrified of me."
"Maybe I am terrified," he said.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. Terrified of how badly I want to kiss you."
My breath hitched.
We were close. Too close.
I wasn't looking at his lips anymore-I was looking at his eyes. He was doing the same. That impossible shade of brown that somehow knew everything I'd ever done, everything I was afraid of doing again. The air felt different. Like it thickened around us, clinging to my skin. My breath slowed. So did his.
"Donatella," he whispered.
I don't know if it was a warning or a plea. Maybe both.
The cloth dropped from my hand. My fingers trailed up, slow, grazing the stubble on his jaw. He was always warm. Always real. Always solid when everything else felt like a cracked illusion.
